eight ways
by miserella
Summary: Finn tells Quinn he loves her in eight different ways.
1. spit it into her voicemail

1.

He's not sure how he got here.

It probably had something to do with Puck, the best friend that he's had since he was, shit, probably, like, six years old. He can't actually remember. And _that_ may have something to do with all those damn shots said best friend has been shoving in front of him.

The same ones he downed without thinking, but it's all Puck's fault. It's always Puck's fault. This time it's not so bad, drinking with his best friend on a Thursday night. Yeah, he has to work tomorrow, but he wasn't thinking about that when he failed to get that promotion today and then Puck was talking about this bar—next thing he knew, there was a shot of Jack Daniels in front of him.

So they're at this scummy little bar on the east side but it's actually not horrible. He gets why it appealed to Puck. The whole place smells like old, spilled beer and lingering cigarette smoke, even though he hasn't seen a light since he walked in. All the wood is dark and stained, rough at the edges, and worn through its varnish in certain places where people have rubbed up against it too much. There's a rusted up old sign that says "Little Red Rooster" that he guesses would be called the 'focal point' of the room or something like that and the windows are all dark red stained glass. On the other hand, it's pretty modern in a way that's not trying to be _too _modern. There's a band playing tonight (some kind of indie set-up; Puck says they're hipster douchebags, but Finn thinks they're alright. Quinn would like them.) but there's no room for any kind of dancing; meanwhile, one corner's got European football on a nice TV and there's a small crowd of younger guys around it. The bartenders are busy and not super friendly, but the beer is good, and apparently, so is the Jack Daniels.

"We came on a bad night," Puck declares, grimacing at the guy beside him. He's got to be just over twenty-one, sputtering at a waitress and about to tip off his stool. "Place is filled with fuckin' college kids. I mean, there's a reason I never went back after high school. These little shits."

Finn shakes his head, feeling his buzz. He's pretty sure his best friend didn't go back because he couldn't afford it and wasn't getting a scholarship with his grades, but Finn's not going to say that. "Yeah? Well, good thing. Turns out it's all a waste of time."

That earns an eye roll and Puck nods at one of the bartenders, gesturing for another round. "You're being a dumbass. Okay? So what if you lost an opportunity this time? There'll be more fucking promotions. You have a job, man. Suck it up," he looks him dead in the eye and pushes a new shot glass toward him, "And drink it up."

So they do.

He's, like, three beers and five (six?) shots into it, when he gets a call from Quinn. The music is just loud enough, the bar just crowded enough, for him to miss it completely. After another beer, Finn goes to the bathroom and stops in the hallway after to check his phone. His fingers click all the wrong buttons and he ends up opening two different apps before he makes it to the three unread messages he's been missing. One's from Will, a buddy at work, who he thinks says something about that asshole Cliff who got the job instead of Finn, and then the other two are from Quinn. 'How'd it go?' she asks. 'Worried about you' comes next.

It makes him feel like a total jerk, because Quinn's the kind of person who actually cares about other people's—other _people_, now, and they're, like, friends. Well, more than. They spend a lot of time together, tell each other almost everything, do stupid stuff like watch Batman marathons on Friday nights and debate between Michael Keaton and Christian Bale for the best dark knight. They'll go to that new retro-inspired roller rink and leave after an hour because they suck so bad, only to go get a drink at their favourite bar and grab pizza on the way home. And sometimes they kiss. That's a recent development, and he likes it, but he's not exactly sure what they're doing. He's afraid to ask.

So obviously he should have called her, but he didn't and now she's worried and he feels terrible. At the same time, he feels a little pleased that she cares at all.

Anyway, he finds the actual call option on his phone after he screws around with it for a little while and starts calling her back. Maybe it's late and maybe it's not a good idea but that's not something he cares about right now. He figures she must have fallen asleep on her sofa again because she doesn't pick up; instead, he's put through to the voicemail, where he slurs through his explanation. He doesn't give a whole lot of details about the day—just says, "Cliff got the job so I got drunk." He tells her, in perhaps more than enough words, that he's with Puck at some bar, that they're okay, and that he's going to stay at Puck's place tonight.

"Everything—Everything's fine, Q. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" He pauses for a second, smiles. "And thanks for checking on me. You're amazing. And I _love_ you. You know that, right?" He leans his head against the hall walls, bumping it on the edge of a frame. Swearing, he rests it back more carefully and waits for the room to stop spinning. "I mean, you're not the same girl from high school that drove me crazy. You still drive me crazy but it's, it's _different_, like…" Some girl walks out of the women's washroom and eyes him as she breezes past. He doesn't miss the smirk on her lips. She bumps into him the next moment, an accident not likely, which sends his phone clattering to the floor.

"Oh," she gasps, airily, "I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."

He's already grabbing for his phone, on his hands and knees in the dark trying to feel for it. The woman joins him there a second later, finding his phone and handing it to him. "I'm—hi," she says, smiling sweetly.

They get back up and he offers her a smile, but not much else. Finn's more interested in what the hell he was doing before she knocked into him. Knocked some sense into him, more like. The screen of his phone is fine—the fall did no damage—but it does say "Call Ended", the numbers 2:06 flashing beneath, which means he's an idiot. "Shit."

"I'm sorry?" the woman pardons, leaning forward to hear him better.

"Oh, uhh," Finn runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut tight. '_Shit_,' he thinks. His mind is on other things right now. "I'm gonna—thanks for the, um." He points to his phone and brushes past her, heading straight for Puck. The guy's already by the door, so Finn figures that he must be thinking the same thing as him. A minute later, the pair of them stumble out of the bar, smelling like the honey lager and cigarettes that the bar never had.

…

Puck lives four blocks west from the bar, which is only maybe two streets away from where Finn works. When he wakes up five minutes before he has to be there the next morning, it's easy to splash his face with some cold water, steal a swipe of Puck's deodorant and a spritz of his least sleazy cologne, and go into work in the same clothes he wore the night before.

Thank god for Casual Fridays.

He sits through two meetings, three drawn out phone calls, and one very achy head before he's graced with his lunch break. He didn't bring anything to eat in his rush over to the office and he might feel too sick to eat even if he did, so he just fills up his mug with more coffee and sits at his desk, pretending to work through it.

He's saved from it by the one person he really doesn't want to be saved by, not today, not right now, and maybe not ever at this point. He's still really embarrassed and the thought of his sloppy drunken message makes him feel even more nauseous, but she sets a brown bag on his desk and holds a fresh blue button-down in front of him, so he's going to try to ignore everything else.

He takes the shirt from her and tries his best to resist a blush and actually _look_ at her. Laughing gently, he says, "You really didn't have to do this."

Quinn shrugs prettily. "I know. I just thought you might need it after last night." At that, he shakes his head a little, cringing. Quinn tries not to smile, but she fails. Definitely fails. So she nods towards the bag and adds, "It's a grilled cheese. There's some Advil in there, too."

Honestly, it sounds like a four course, gourmet meal to him. Despite his embarrassment, he's entirely grateful and tries to convey this with a look. "Thank you," he says firmly, just in case she didn't get it. Quinn blinks and gives him a touch of a smile. So he pulls a chair over, tells her to sit, and while he gobbles down the grilled cheese sandwich, she nibbles at her own organic flatbread lunch.

It's nice, just to sit there and eat, but he holds his breath the whole time. She obviously got the message. She's just not saying anything about his drunken confession of sorts, and he's not sure what to think of that.

They chat about a variety of things, like words spaced by silences and punctuated with laughter. He tells her about Puck the night before and his love for Jack Daniels, making note of his own newfound distaste for the stuff. She laughs at that, calls him "poor baby." He rolls his eyes, and once she's moving on to the topic of his non-promotion, calling Cliff a d-bag, it's like everything's back to normal.

Except that after she packs up her lunch, she kisses him on the cheek where that blush is beginning to form again, and he spends the next four days in a nervous state, just waiting for her to mention his slurred and sputtered 'I love you.'

She doesn't (not until years later).

* * *

Here starts a new series of drabbles based on **_8 Ways To Say I Love__ You_**by R. McKinley which you can find through a quick Google search or on Thought Catalog. I'm not sure if I'll finish them all or how often this will be updated, but I'm trying to get through it as quickly as I can and I'm on a writing spree right now (just finished my first semester of university; creativity was limited and I need an outlet!) so hopefully we'll see them all finished before I go back to school! I know I'd like that.

As always, let me know what you think.


	2. sigh it into her mouth

2.

Okay, he's not really sure how he got here, either.

He definitely likes this position a lot more, with Quinn's ballerina legs wrapped around his waist and her dainty hands hung around his neck in the middle of his apartment.

They only just got back from his birthday dinner, a simple sit-down at that new cozy restaurant on 10th, where his mom, Burt, Puck, and his new girl were all in attendance. It was nice, and their steak was awesome—but that's not what's on his mind right now. Really.

After Finn opened their gifts, which he swore he didn't need but received anyway, they all went their separate ways and Quinn said she was going to head back to his place with him. It had sounded purely amicable, and he hadn't in the least expected this. But he thinks Quinn may have realized that they were all so conveniently coupled up at the dinner—not planned—and thought that jumping him was an acceptable birthday gift, or something.

He's not complaining.

Obviously, to anyone with eyes, Quinn Fabray is beautiful. She always has been. He still remembers when he saw her for the first time, their first day as freshmen at McKinley. She'd seemed so much smaller that day, with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes low under her lashes. They didn't speak a word, but she still managed to catch his eye that day. He remembers it, because two days later she was in a Cheerios uniform, hands on her hips and chin held high.

She still caught his eye then, no doubt about it, but he always wondered about the girl in the periwinkle dress and what happened to her. He found out after she got pregnant, but that's not something he likes to dwell on.

Especially with her lips on his, as sweet as the vanilla lip balm she's worn since sophomore year.

He starts moving them somewhere, anywhere, making sure to hold her up by the arms around her hips, because dropping her would be the worst thing he could do at this point. Eventually he starts directing them towards the sofa, but then Quinn pulls away and says, "Let's go to your room." He can't argue with that, and not long after her whispered directions, he's sitting her down on the end of his bed, leaning over her form as she lays back and pulls him on top of her.

God, she's a good kisser. But he's known that since he was fifteen and couldn't control himself the first time they did this.

Finn loosens his tie without opening his eyes, throwing it off to the side when he can slip it off his neck. With his knees balanced on either side of her, he hovers over her warm body and lets his hands fall to the sides of her waist. He can feel her smile against his lips and he regrettably pulls away from her to undo the first few buttons of his dark green shirt (it's getting hot in here). Leaning on one arm, he smirks down at her as he pops the buttons out from their holes. "Is this your idea of a birthday gift?"

He has absolutely no idea what they're doing, or what this is, but he says it anyway and finds that he doesn't really care. She looks gorgeous beneath him and he can't take his eyes off of her. Her cheeks are perfectly pink where they pop when she smiles, and her lips are sinfully red from his kisses. Her eyes a darker colour than he remembers, while her long blonde hair is so amazingly familiar, golden and shiny against his grey sheets like a tangled halo.

He's sure he loves her. He didn't even want to admit he liked her as something more than a friend fifteen minutes ago, but all he knows in this moment is that he's _in love_ with her and that he wants to kiss her again.

Quinn, for her part, bites her lip and tugs on his collar once his hand is beside her ribs again, bringing her lips to his. She kisses him softly, slowly, before she says, all mumbled and melted together, "I don't know. Depends on if it's what you want."

It's almost bizarre how entirely _friendly_ they had been before the kissing started, that very first time in the park on a late November day with ice cream cones in their hands (it'd been chilly, but he insisted upon it), and how friendly they'd been whenever they weren't kissing—and how now it was all sexy and flirty and yet, didn't seem to be out of place to either of them.

It's weird in general that Finn and Quinn, the couple that broke up at a funeral in high school, have ended up here at all.

None of that seemed to matter when they started talking again, after she'd moved away for school and he and Rachel were officially done. It had been completely natural to them and not at all to anyone else, but that didn't seem to matter to them either. They were just friends, and happy to be—at least for six years, which is a hell of a long time, until he went and fell for her all over again.

"Quinn," he laughs, shaking his head just the slightest bit. "This is probably the best birthday gift ever."

Her hand glides along his jaw, and he watches as her eyes bore into his, like she's searching for something. She blinks and there's a small grin on her face again. He can tell she wants to make a joke, and a probably embarrassing one for him, so he just kisses her again and he hopes she's forgotten the joke at all.

It happens again once Finn slips his tongue into her willing mouth and she makes what he believes must be the sweetest noise ever. Her hands are in his hair and his shirt is mostly untucked, and they probably look like a pair of teenagers, making out on his bed. Then he sighs, softer than ever before, and there it is. In his breath, the same three words he babbled into her voice mail on a drunken night.

Neither of them notice.


	3. the simple confession

3.

He finally asks her out while they're doing the dishes after dinner at her place. She's washing, he's drying, and he looks over at her in her yellow rubber gloves, hair tied back haphazardly only a second before she started, and he realizes he wants more from her than… whatever they have right now.

Her hair still manages to hang in her face despite the hair tie, and she pushes it back with a slippery wet glove that's way too big for her after he says, "Why won't you let me take you out?"

Finn realizes that's not really asking to take her on a date, but that's what comes out of his mouth and the air is so thick afterwards that he finds he can't disturb it by retracting his statement. So it sits there, and Quinn slowly looks up at him, her loose strands now snug behind her ear. She smiles a little bit before scrubbing at the pan she used for her newest experiment. "Is that your way of _asking_ me?"

"No," he replies instantly. Then he looks through the wine glass he's drying, sees her all stretched and distorted, and says, "Maybe."

Quinn puts the pan off to the side for him to clean and begins to work on the mixing bowl she used while he puts the glass away in the cupboards up top. It's a silent moment of pure domesticity shared between them, which is not unusual. He starts thinking he needs an answer or a reply when she shrugs lightly and says, "Okay."

"Okay?" he asks, brows furrowed and confused.

She stops washing for a second but leaves her rubber-clad hands in the sink and looks over her shoulder at him, where her hair has fallen out from where she tucked it before. "Give me a date, Hudson."

…

He watches romance movies for inspiration.

It's one Thursday night and he even turns his phone off so that nobody can ask him what he's doing. He was never very good at lying and he doesn't think a dude watching chick flicks on his own is something he wants getting around (getting to _Puck_ mostly).

In the week leading up to their date that follows, he leaves a teddy at her door, brings chocolates over one night, and sends flowers to her work. He considers buying a trench coat and a boom box and taking on the role of Lloyd Dobler, but he doesn't even know where you can buy a boom box anymore and he doesn't think Quinn likes Peter Gabriel, anyway.

Besides, that might be overkill.

It's just that he doesn't even know what he's doing—he can't remember the last time he actually went on a date where he really wanted to impress somebody. He's gone out with girls, sure, but they were so casual and usually they were the ones trying to impress him. He's not saying he's some stud or anything, but maybe it was just that he never felt anything strong enough for those girls.

(It might show how he feels about Quinn.)

Only, he doesn't really need to impress her either, he doesn't think, but he ends up trying anyway. So he drives himself crazy with planning and brainstorming—or, in his world, zoning out at work—and he knows he's an idiot for all of it, because Quinn probably doesn't even _care_. In fact, she's probably just humouring him with a date in order to tell him she wants to be friends.

Again, driving himself crazy.

So crazy, in fact, that he ends up booking a seven o'clock dinner at the fanciest restaurant he could find on Urban Spoon, which turns out to be very modern and chic and _expensive_ but they have a great wine selection, apparently—something Quinn pays a lot of attention to these days. It might be weird, but he loves that she can be this total wino, naming the best Italian wines from, like, eighty years ago, and then go pick up a six-pack of Budweiser for them to share in the same night. Finn thinks Quinn is really cool now, in a way that none of the other girls he's known have been.

He really does love her for it, and for so many other things.

…

In the end, he picks her up at six-thirty on the dot and nearly drops all the pretty pansies he has curled up in his hand when she opens the door. It's probably as much of a cliché as everything else he's planned out, so he thinks the fact that she's making his mouth dry at the very sight of her is only fitting.

So are the only words to fall from his lips. "Wow, you look…"

It's hard not to stare when she's wearing a simple, but sexy, black number, true to her form and tied at the waist. Her hair is long, loose, and curly, and he just really wants to forget all this and just say how he feels, but the thought alone has him hot under his suit and itching at his neck.

She rolls her eyes in response, taking the flowers from him swiftly and putting them in a vase sitting so conveniently by the front door, like she was expecting it all. "Okay, enough. I think you've generously filled your quota for Things Out Of a Romance Movie already."

It's not rude, it's Quinn. She shuts the door behind her and joins him in the hall, only he hasn't moved from his spot, so she's just about squished between him and her front door. Under his scrutiny, she blinks, cheeks pink. She's barely able to rasp out, "What?" as she places a hand on his new sports jacket, specially bought for the occasion, and leans in closer.

His face just hovers over hers as he gives her _that look_, as she calls it; he guesses it's the one where he can't take his eyes off her, where all he's thinking about is kissing her. His lips twitch the slightest little bit and he takes her hand from where it's resting on his chest, blinking slowly at her. "Nothing," is what he says instead of the words that have been on his tongue for weeks, months, even years, now. "C'mon."

"Wait," she calls out as he starts to leave, their hands still connected and arms stretched between the two of them. He loops back as she smirks and palms his stubbly cheek (just how she likes it). "I didn't get to say my part."

"Your part?"

"You know. 'Don't you clean up nice?'… Or, 'You look pretty handsome yourself.' Typical date stuff," she teases, and God, she's going to make fun of his gifts for the rest of their lives. He groans lightly, closing his eyes and trying not to look at her adorable, grinning face. But then he can feel her breath closer, tickling his lips, and he opens his eyes just in time to stop her (not that he wants to).

"Now, now, Miss Fabray," he scolds playfully, pulling back from her hand and moving them away from the door again. "A gentleman never kisses on the first date."

As he tugs her along through the hall and down the stairs, the blonde is quick to remind him that this is technically _not _their first date and nowhere near it, considering they've dated twice before, but by the time they get to his car, she's fixated on figuring out where he's taking them and what else he might have up his sleeve.

She doesn't know that, really, all he has up there is his heart.

…

The restaurant has their thermostat turned up too high.

Or maybe it's just him, but either way, he probably tugs on his tie every two minutes and takes a sip of his icy water just as often. When he's not sweating under his suit, he's totally making a mess of everything by stumbling over his words or rambling on or forgetting to reply to her when he's too distracted by her smile.

He feels like an idiot. He can tell Quinn isn't comfortable, either. She orders something nice and probably not too expensive off the wine menu, though, and they both try to ignore the way the young, slick waiter leers at her. Like, who does that? It looks pretty obvious to him that they're on a date. Then again, the dude probably thinks Finn is mucking it up so may as well take her off his hands. That thought makes him work a little harder or something.

He clears his throat before he orders some steak dish off the menu, tries to pronounce the French as well as he can. The waiter is snooty so he smirks at him anyway, but he glances at Quinn and her smile is genuine and warm. It makes him feel a lot better.

As they wait for their meals, they chat about a variety of things going on in their lives, like they're not sitting in some elegant and cutting edge establishment waiting for their fifty dollar meals to come. He doesn't really know how to talk to her on a date like this, not when they've been together twice before and have spent the last few years in friendship. But their conversation is smooth and relaxing just like this, and he soon finds that he's stopped the tugging, coughing, and sweating. She just has that calming effect on him.

At least until their meals arrive, which is when he starts getting all weird again. He knows that when they're done, he'll actually have to talk to her—say what he wants to so badly say—and the nerves set in while he slowly cuts into his steak that, honestly, isn't worth what he's paying (but she is). Quinn seems to enjoy her pasta, even though there's not a lot of it there. He just nods when she says that, instead focusing on what he's going to say and how.

It's not long until the waiter comes back to clear their table, and then it's just the two of them again.

"Finn," she says, softly but with a smile. "I… really appreciate all this."

He exhales, feels himself sweating again. "Do you? 'Cause I was really worried…"

Quinn shakes her head adamantly. "No. It was _lovely. _Thank you."

"Cool," he laughs, lightly, along with her, " Because I kinda, um, wanted to… say something, I guess."

Blinking, she leans forward and rests her hands, neatly folded, on the table. He smiles for a second and lifts his eyes from the off-white tablecloth that he feels like he's been staring at all night. The candle between them flickers and her face is lit up in a warm, orange hue. He feels hot and cold at the same time.

"Are you okay?" she asks, quietly. "Finn, you're shaking."

He shakes his head, waves her concern off. "No, no, I'm fine." He laughs at himself for a moment, taking a deep breath and rolling his eyes. "God, I feel like I'm gonna _propose_ or something."

Quinn's eyes go wide and she squishes her lips together, amused. "You're not going to propose. Are you?"

"No," he says firmly, but still smiling. "Quinn, I... I'm not sure what we're doing. You know? What this is." He gestures between the two of them. "Like, I think about it _all the time._ When I'm sitting at work and Cliff's bragging about something again, or, you know, when I'm trying to fall asleep but all I can think about is _you. _I mean, what do I call you to people? We—We're more than _friends_. At least, I think so."

"Finn," she starts and doesn't really go anywhere with it. She doesn't look like she's about to reject him, though, so he keeps going. He also finds that he's not having as much trouble doing this than he thought he would.

"No, I mean," he leans in, lowers his voice, "This is something, Quinn. It is. I just don't know _what_ and…"

He trails off. Quinn's biting her lip now. Her cheeks are flushed and he figures she's probably as nervous as he is. He might be coming out of nowhere with this, but he doesn't really think so. It's been long enough since they started hanging out and getting intimate, so it really shouldn't be a surprise to her. At least, not a big one. So, he takes a deep breath and continues.

"And it's killing me, because… Honestly? I know what I want, Q, and this isn't it."

Her brow furrows and he's tempted to smooth out the creases with his thumb just to touch her, to comfort her. But then she looks down and clears her throat before she whispers, "And what do you want, Finn?"

He says it in a breath, low and sincere. "I want to be with you."

Quinn snaps her eyes back to him, and in that moment, he's unable to read them. He thinks she looks a little bit like that girl she was in high school and a little bit like the grown woman he's entirely in love with, the one who's not afraid to feel. She refrains from saying anything then and he's glad for it, because the words following spill out of his mouth and into the air between them. "Like, actually with you. Together, for real. I want to be able to call you my girlfriend to the guys at work who already think that's what you are. I want that stupidly charming grad student in your building to back off once and for all because _I'm _your boyfriend. You know? I just want to be able to tell you how I feel when I feel like it…. Because you're _perfect_ but not like in the boring way. You're the smartest person I know, but you still don't understand football. And you cheered for years, so like, what is that?" Quinn laughs at that, and he smiles, too, leaning in closer and putting his hands right beside hers. "You have the most adorable laugh, and I know because you're the only one who laughs at my stupid jokes. You're funny, too, in a way I never knew before. You're beautiful in a way that I _always_ knew, and you always knew it too, but even if people think differently, it was never easy for you." He takes a second then, when she glances away in a flash. She looks back at him again—eyes glossier than before—and he breathes in quickly. "But Quinn, all that stuff… You're strong, _so strong, _and that's what makes me love you. I mean, you're incredible. Okay?"

He tilts his chin down and gives her this pointed look—if nothing else, he wants her to know that it's what he believes, wholeheartedly. Finn doesn't even dwell on the fact that he said he loves her, albeit in a roundabout way; he just waits for her to nod, and she does, a little bit, before she slides her hand over so that it rests on top of his.

"Can we get out of here?" she whispers, leaning in. Her nose is kind of crinkled up in that way of hers (he flashes back to the Quinn Fabray he knew in ninth grade) and he can't say no. Not that he would, because frankly, he's ready to get out of here, too. The words still take him by surprise, though, because he had expected some kind of response to his _whatever _that just was. Confession? Plea? He doesn't even know.

Maybe she doesn't either.

Quinn's up from her seat before he is, and he feels bad that he doesn't pull her chair out for her, but he guesses Quinn really doesn't care about that. She looks over her shoulders—both of them—surveying the restaurant and when he goes to pull out his wallet, she grabs his hand quickly and pulls, hard. Then she takes off, making her way swiftly through the tables and haughty diners without looking suspicious, and tugs him along with her. Together they slip past the maître d' and even once they make it out into the chilly air without being caught, she keeps going, leading him away from the restaurant altogether until they're around the corner. Once she considers them safe, Quinn grins up at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief and cheeks rosy, then pushes him gently up to the brick wall of some bank building.

"Wow," he chuckles, his breath forming clouds against the cold. "What was all the hurry for?"

Quinn's green eyes are still sparkling, but he doesn't think it has anything to do with their dash. Shaking her head, she says, "You didn't have to do all that, Finn."

He's not sure what to take from that; his nerves start to go wild again and he can't keep his breathing steady. Quinn's close enough to notice this, he thinks, because then she pops up on her toes, wraps a small hand around the back of his neck like always, and tugs him towards her before she kisses him—and even though her kisses are always nice, this one is _perfect. _Those fireworks appear behind his eyes and his entire body is buzzing, and she's not saying 'goodbye' or 'the end.' She's definitely not saying 'just friends.'

Her message becomes a lot more clear when she pulls away—by a _hair_—and says, "They say the third time's a charm," against his lips.

He vaguely remembers something about first dates and gentlemen and a cheeky rule about kissing, and he wants to laugh because she's still reinforcing her argument—but the truth is, he doesn't really care much at all, since he'd always hoped the plan would involve some of this—but instead, he kisses her quickly for that, though he won't deny that his hands come up to wrap around her hips, and _God, _they're making out on a street corner in the city like kids (the kids they never really were).

When she separates herself from him and from the wall, she slides the hand that was on his nape over his shoulder and down his arm to take his hand before she backs away (absolutely grinning—and he mirrors her entirely) to find their way back to his car.

"I don't know," Finn drawls, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I may have to reconsider. I didn't think my girlfriend was going to be a thief." It's completely in jest but he likes the way she giggles and halfheartedly rolls her eyes at the same time. He also really likes using the term 'girlfriend' again in reference to her. It's comfortable, natural, but it almost makes him pause—because how the hell did he get Quinn Fabray to be his again?

"Oh, come on. I know you're going to go back and fake a forgotten phone or something so that you can pay," she counters.

Finn dips his head, blushing. "I threw the bills at the guy on the way out."

He had to, because while he loves that his girl's a little unpredictable now (but not so much, like ending up pregnant with his best friend), he's not going to _not pay. _That's just Finn.

Quinn doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

**AN:** Sigh. I'm not sure how I feel about this one. It was written in parts throughout the holiday/getting back to school season-which was kind of crazy and explains why it took so long for me to post this one-and once I finished it I wasn't too keen on reading over it again so I'm sure mistakes are everywhere and once I do read it again, I'll regret not changing a few things. At the same time, I was so excited to be done that I just wanted to get it up for you guys, so-there it is. I hope you enjoyed the read and I hope you can leave some kind of feedback to let me know what you're thinking as it would be very helpful. Thanks for reading, anyway!


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